Archive for category collectibles

Second set of Ten-gold trophy winning poems.

Hiya again! ( repeated from the first set of ten gold winning poems over facebook note)
please do not misconstrue this for a flaunt. I took genuine notice of your inputs every now and then and still submit to the same eye of assuring criticism or applaud.
It mattered a lot to compete with a section of d crowd that try & contribute to the world of contemporary verse. Its about assessment, not want. Of self-effacing hue, not kitsch pants.
Some Judges had tags of excellence in their works published elsewhere.I keep their recognition.Yes, it's to d taste of judges too.Some writes I favored went below gold, and some i thought with less winning edge won.I guess that's why Zodiacs exist.
Please read them at leisure, and I leave with a fervent hope that you have a word to say or keep.

11. White Moth -30 words

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7459269]

Nonchalant to the noises
of afternoon wind
she ponders
with deep breaths you could see

the movement of thin rib-wafers
ash powders of sweat

Flits vivid pages of black outlines
——–xxx——–

12. Cold night-lights- 15 words

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7369523]

There is
a lantern bazaar
where women sell fire
and
men fly away
into
oblivion.

———xxx——–

13. The Utopia in Dystopia

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7364208 ]

There is no home like home,
the way my father consulted
seventy-nine
tribal chiefs of his thought clan
to come up with my name
for which I was not
consulted but grew to understand
that despite
a verb, noun, adjective or tone deficiency,
my home is like my name
that writes within me.

We are poor by the status of
census, and we
support our own army by the sweat
of our labor, but still  our
patriotism is questioned
everyday
by our distant brothers;
Might is right, yeah,
but our right is our might.

My home is my constitution.

We have lost
the best men of the family
whose patriotic guts were too
much for the ism of internal politics
to encourage;
Still, my home prides in me,
like an inherited  powder-horn hung
from the shoulder of Uncle brave.

My home stores my uncollected souvenirs.

The cemetery is damp and untidy
like hurriedly left bunkers;
Damp, perhaps
by the eyes of spirits who still see
an unending conflict: We went and gave
hair-cuts to soldier grasses with
whetted machetes and then the tombs
were a parade show of invisible emotions.

My home is both my living and posthumous salute.

Now we have pens trying to replace sickles,
but half-dipped quills struggle to write
better constitutions.
I also am half-filled, so I don’t talk much
politics
but feel enough to write this
heart from the faraway beats of my home.

My home may not be your home,
and my home may not be a house
but it makes me vein the blood
of my poem.

————-xxxxxxxxxxxxxx————————–

08-04-11, Rangam Chiru

14. -Poster Wash-

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7361696]

Mumbai‘s dhobi ghats
His, her’s, sir’s, siren’s, priest’s,crook’s
Whiplashed,flogged laundry
————-xxx————–
-Rangam Chiru, 7-4-11

How can those animals with wings be friends?
They hatch eggs over Libya.[Someday,the army of hens will destroy their eggs
instead of using them as Caesar’s omlette bombs.
Minimus has been talking  to me about how politics
would be killed by humanity in the end]

Four pigs of the brotherhood were silenced and executed
Have we not learnt from Snowball-effect?

Old Major‘s skull was put on public display, and the ghosts
of rebellion passed over Iraq. Pink-eyes of the world drank
captured barrels of cow’s milk that were meant to be
poisoned for mass farm obliteration.

Three commandments were amended out of seven, while evolution
made it just one. You see that the Mr. Whympers’ of
various farms with acronyms have been negotiating about how to
delay the world with drafts, bills or acts and finally  make Moses
the Ravens’ speak on Televisions for the rest of their lives.

Religion’s Cat, she came to vote for Egypt and America in the
same prayer box. Boxer , Mollie and Benjamin left for Japan in the
minds of most humans. We were not told how many animals died.
Even Mollie’s donated out of their vanity banks.

Squealers’ addition to the charter got noticed considerably.
No animal shall kill another animal without cause
No human shall kiss another’s cheek with diplomacy.
Kisses and handshakes have killed the world.

We are all pseudo-literate Muriels to read the writings of
the horn and the hoof after a bomb hatches.

See, those with wings are never friends. Never.
Legs and wings cannot have the same laws.
——————————–xxx————————————–
“All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others – George Orwell
29/03/11, Rangam Chiru

I was born in the civilization of
nature, as a fallow sky discarded
its cloudy weeds in  perpetual
wrestle of seasons.

A lake-owner’s levee of bliss,
solidified for every monsoon
lectured,
that the
unprejudiced ownership of dreams
makes a civilized king
and
an indigenous story digger
eat on the same table,
decorated by  connoisseurs of
identity and taste.

How the discrimination of lightning strikes
challenged tormented trees
to grow
stronger stems and shoots
and how wayward branches
of the sky forests
give reverence to the artistic
pliability
of earth’s  roots.

Challenged repeatedly by the command
of earth’s
artistes and literary spirits,
heaven had no alternative
but display a rainbow canvas
to assert authority.

Some religions even blessed humanity
a chance
of dining in an after-life,
the best of those who were
quietly recommended by gods
to be immortalized
in the embrace of the same earth.

I have easily felt
the dreams
of gods
in the blueprint
of mortal verses.

Do they know
that each day humans
invent new skies beyond
the reach of their
wide-awake
immortality?
———–xxx—————–
“Poetry is the attempt to translate the dreams of gods felt by intuition”- Rangam Chiru [28-03-11]

17. Written Manna

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7325514]

A phalanx of brown-bereted
mushrooms
spear out from the
bunkers of tree-trunks
as thunder bugled the sleeping soldiers
to salute the raingod’s  marching;

Diligent winds sweep the earth
hurriedly
as amateur brooks beat
a thousand cymbals
to be redeemed by an orchestra
of river choirs.

Forgotten frog poets
of three seasons
finally gather
a mandatory audience
of pricey-feathered wings
and warm-gowned cottage families
sipping the warmth of brewed raindrops;
Budding silver-scale poets
go about in circles looking for
metaphoric interpretations.

Soldiers and their guns
listen in hovels
roofed by polythene blues
reminiscent of
the same summer sky.

Dusty flame-tree leaves
shower bright
on par with
peacock feathers
all set
for an indigenous
rain dance.

As I behold and peruse,
I have absorbed
that poetry
like rain
supplies for every season.
————-xxx———————–
© ˷ Rangam Chiru, March 25, 2011.

” POETRY IS MY RAIN “

18 -Lessons in a Warmblood’s wind

———————————————

A good poem
in cowboy boots,
struts with fine rowels,
chapguards and
spur-strapped to fine thinking,
tinkles pajados
of
instinctive voices.

Spurs roll in the heels of my mind,
like these roll of little ellipsis’s
cantering by a thought farm;
I change trots looking
for rum-soaked fodder
in
a word-stack :

The withers of my life
is held good
by a novice’s strong arms;
The fetlocks of my journey
feel the rush of a halfway
poetry, and contentment
earned its spurs celebrated
between
Fridays and Sundays.

At times I fail to mount a rump,
when legs weaken to frustrated jumps.
Even when there’s anger,
mustangs taught me to kick
a stallion’s jealousy
with
the shiniest hooves.

Brown-shine words
are my warmblood strong,
trampling best the grass outgrown;

I ride on
in its gaits
of struggling wind,
in the vision
of
my galloping  mind.

——————–————————
-“Speak your mind, but ride a fast horse.”
©  Rangam Chiru, 1-03-2010

19. 28 words of Februum

——————–———————

I roam
Dionysus’ kingdoms,
where intoxicated winds
sober,
in
Amethystos’s
valentine violas.

Chaste clouds
rain
in
spiritual threads.

Weak toes
of my
mind’s ballerina
regains,
in
piety’s dance.

__________________________

Nota Bene:
* Februum, latin for purification and February’s root.
-Dionysus, god of wine who sobered in the chaste vows of maiden Amethystos
-Month of February is symbolized by violas,valentine,amethyst,
and virtues of piety, spiritual wisdom & humility
© Rangam Chiru, 23-02-11

20. Re-union-

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7377637]

When the berm sails
that kept their heads aloft
surrendered
to egodystonic
saltwater,

their bliss was a slow ship scuttling;

There are certain collocations
that destroy single words

like drooped shoulders.

On top of it,
there is a motor word-pump
right below them.

I read their straightening
shoulders in rehabilitating
poems,

like a rockstar duo contemplating a re-duet.

The stage would be fossilized
then

in an egosyntonic hug

having nothing to do
with shoulders.
—————————xxx———————
13-04-2011
-Rangam Chiru

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UNDERLINE JOHN PRINE: Collected “souvenirs” over the web

Heres a few links that might be of some help for John Prine study. Am currently on one, doing a round-up of his folk poetry in songs. If anyone could add to it, thanks beforehand. Those underlined red are the bigger, important ones, you can’t afford to miss.

I like the way Paul Zollo begins his introduction of John Prine in an interview post:kinda sums up any write .

❚Straight from the streets of Maywood he came, a mailman with a chain of masterpieces. It’s Chicago, 1970, and word starts circulating around this close-knit folk music scene that there’s a new guy who must be heard to be believed. A songwriter who seems to have emerged fully formed with a voice like Hank Williams and songs that resound like some miracle collaboration between Woody Guthrie and Hemingway. His name’s Prine. And almost as soon as the denizens of the Windy City learned of him, the secret was out, and John Prine belonged to the world.  ☗ ( read interview at : http://bluerailroad.wordpress.com/john-prine-the-bluerailroad-interview/ )

A Big, Fat Retrospective by Steve Cooper (Sept 1997) at Perfect Music : http://www.furious.com/perfect/prine.html

http://stupidd.blogspot.com/2008/09/john-prine-6-great-albums.html

http://www.fensepost.com/main/2010/06/21/john-prine-feature/

http://thismornin.com/2010/04/john-prine-tribute-album-loaded-with-great-artists/

http://katarokkar.cribble.net/2010/07/album-reviews-band-of-horses-john-prine/

☗ Friday, April 09, 2010 Popular Artists Celebrate John Prine With New CD : Today’s avant-roots renaissance owes a great debt to John Prine’s laconic, ever-questioning poetic quality – a debt that is warmly repaid by Broken Hearts & Dirty Windows: Songs of John Prine :  http://ohboyrecordsblog.blogspot.com/2010/04/popular-artists-celebrate-john-prine.html

☗  JOHN PRINE’S  MUSIC IN DETAIL : http://www.jpshrine.org/music/index.html

Complete list of John Prine songs : http://www.whosdatedwho.com/music/songs/john-prine.htm

☗  Casey Chambers interview : http://thecollegecrowddigsme.blogspot.com/2007/06/interview-john-prine.html

☗   REVERB interview http://www.heyreverb.com/2009/06/12/interview-john-prine/

library of Congress with Poet Laureate Ted Kooser, who introduces him in as ” SOMEBODY WHO I HAVE WAITED TO MEET FOR 35 years – http://www.loc.gov/today/cyberlc/feature_wdesc.php?rec=3677

http://www.ohboy.com/media/01%20John%20Prine%20Interview%20-%20WGLD%2012-19-71.mp3

☗  Bob Dylan Exclusive Interview: Reveals His Favorite Songwriters, Thoughts On His Own Cult Figure Status http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/04/15/bob-dylan-exclusive-inter_n_187216.html

☗ FOLK MUSIC.COM : http://folkmusic.about.com/od/artistskr/p/JohnPrineBio.htm

WORD PRESS TAGS :- http://en.wordpress.com/tag/john-prine/

http://devoguy.livejournal.com/214128.html

http://dkpresents.wordpress.com/2010/11/11/masterpiece-john-prine/

☗John Prine: American LegendRoger Ebert: http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/pages-for-twitter/john-prine-an-american-legend.html

I guess that’s much about what I thought was an indispensable part of Prine’s collectibles. One thing he has about him is that he draws you towards the words and you say I should perhaps listen to it again- once you read Prine it’s the same as saying “How the hell can a person go to work in the morning
And come home in the evening and have nothing to say” – ANgel From Montgomery

cheers. will get back on the finished product soon.


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Who is worthy and who is not ?

Souls are not displayed
on mannequins
at the neighborhood mall,
nor hang at the butcher’s shop
to choose a fine breast
that just covered a finer heart,
to feed my own. 

But was it you whom I heard when I was deaf ?
deaf to banal words, but yours were absorbed
Was it you who shew the next obstacle,
when I was blind?
they gave a myriad sights, yet I preferred
a simple hold of your arm, the candor in your voice

Apartments of books lean on a burdened bookend
the pock-marked bespectacled librarian,
with intermittent beard
(like moss on burnt brick)
picks out the thickest
with a keenest intent ;
Glad he lightens the weight on a deadwood.

It would take the time of libraries
to know all authors and pages
Next time you pay the bookman,
look at the unbelievable shelf-stack of attractive wisdom
But gaze longer at that book, when you
put your hands in the backpocket
and pay for the one you just chose;
It’s not necessary for its little press time
or its author’s household connect,
that you’d put it later
on your own shelf.

Who is worthy and who is not?
I rang the bell of my neighbor
to return a well-liked book
she says, “keep it, I just didn’t like it”
I said,” Thank you so much”
and my shelf was happy
for my well-read trophy.

[Author notes] : Prompt : True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends,But in the worth and choice.

Benjamin Jonson

http://allpoetry.com/poem/6901921

For me, a friend is so much a book at first, that allows to grow itself into books.
And in a library world of all sorts of books, true happiness is found only in the selected ones you borrow for a lifetime.

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    April 09, 1916, NYTimes Interview by JOYCE KILMER:Edwin Arlington Robinson Defines Poetry; A Language, Says Well-Known Poet, that tells us through more or less emotional reaction something which cannot be said

    I typed out of the original photo documentation from New York Times  archives by way of my instant liking for an almost century old print that spoke volumes of how poetry remains deeply rooted till today, to the basic values discussed by Edward Arlington Robinson and Joyce Kilmer. ( Top class pioneers of the 20th century writing)  I liked the interview format, as in a prose form too. I guess copyright issues do not affect as this is purely meant for blog reading and not for commercial reproduction. Here’s a link to the copyrighted photo PDF.

    http://query.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=9402E4DD1439E233A2575AC0A9629C946796D6CF#

     

    At no time in the history of literature have the critics been able to agree upon a definition of poetry. And the recent popularity of VERS LIBRE and IMAGISME has made the definer’s task harder than ever before.

    IS RHYME ESSENTIAL TO POETRY?  IS RHYTHM ESSENTIAL TO POETRY? CAN A MERE REFLECTION OF LIFE  JUSTLY BE CALLED POETRY, OR MUST IMAGINATION BE  PRESENT?

    I put some of these questions to EDWARD ARLINGTON ROBINSON, who wrote ” CAPTAIN CRAIG” ” THE TOWN DOWN THE RIVER” and ” THE MAN AGAINST THE SKY”. And this man, whom WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE and other authoritative critics have called the foremost of American poets, this student of  life, who was revealing the mysterious poetry of humanity many years before EDGAR LEE MASTERS discovered to the world the vexed spirits  that HEART SPOON RIVER, rewarded my questioning with a new definition of poetry.

    He said : POETRY IS A LANGUAGE THAT TELLS US, THROUGH MORE OR LESS EMOTIONAL REACTION, SOMETHING THAT CANNOT BE SAID. ” ALL THAT POETRY, GREAT OR SMALL DOES THIS” he added ” AND IT SEEMS TO ME THAT POETRY HAS TWO CHARACTERISTICS. ONE IS THAT IT IS AFTER ALL UNDEFINABLE. THE OTHER IS THAT IT IS EVENTUALLY MISTAKABLE.

    “Eventually ,” I said. ” Then you think that poetry is not always appreciated in the lifetime of its maker?”

    Mr. Robinson smiled whimsically.” I never use words enough,” he said.” It is not unmistakable as soon as it is published but sooner or later it is unmistakable.

    AND IN THE POET’S LIFETIME THERE ARE ALWAYS SOME PEOPLE  WHO WILL UNDERSTAND AND APPRECIATE HIS WORK. I REALLY THINK THAT IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR A REAL POET PERMANENTLY TO ESCAPE APPRECIATION. AND I CAN’T IMAGINE ANYTHING SILLIER FOR A MAN TO DO THAN TO WORRY ABOUT POETRY THAT HAS ONCE BEEN DECENTLY PUBLISHED. THE REST IS IN THE HANDS OF TIME, AND TIME HAS MORE THAN OFTEN A WAY OF MAKING A PRETTY THOROUGH JOB OF IT.”

    google images

    But why is it,” I asked,” that a great poet is without honor in his own generation where mediocrity is immediately famous?”

    ” it’s hard to say” said Mr. Robinson , thoughtfully regarding the glowing end of his cigar. ” Many causes prevent poetry from being correctly appraised in its own time. Any poetry that is marked by violence, that is conspicuous in color, that is sensationally odd, makes an immediate appeal. On the other hand, poetry that is not noticeably eccentric sometimes fails for years to attract any attention.

    ” I think that this is why so many of KIPLING’s worst poems are greatly overpraised, while some of his best poems  are not appreciated. ” GUNGA DIN” which is, of course, a good thing in its way, has been praised far more than it deserves because of its oddity. And the poem beginning ” There’s a whisper down the field’ has never been properly appreciated. It’s one of the very best of Kipling’s poems, although it is marred by a few lapses of taste. One of his greatest poems, by the way, ” The Children of the Zodiac,” happens to be in prose.

    ” But I am always revising my opinion of Kipling. I have changed my mind about him so often that I have no confidence in my critical judgement. That is one of the reasons why I do not like to criticise my American contemporaries.”

    ” Do you think,” I asked ” That this tendency to pay attention chiefly to the more sensational poets is a characteristic of our generation  as of those that came before?”

    ” I think it applies particularly to our own time,” he replied.” More than ever before oddity and violence are bringing into prominence poets who have little besides these two qualities to offer the world, and some who have more. It may seem very strange to you, but I think that a great modern instance of this tendency is the case of Robert Browning. The eccentricities of Browning’s method are the things that first turned popular attention upon him, but the startling quality in BROWNING made more sensation in his own time than it can ever make again. I say this in spite of the fact that BROWNING and WORDSWORTH,are taken as classic examples of slow recognition. WORDSWORTH, you know, had no respect for the judgement of youth. It may have been sour grapes, but I am inclined to think that there was a great deal of truth in his opinion.

    ” I think it is safe to say that all real poetry is going to give at some time or other a suggestion of FINALITY. In real poetry you find also about it a sort of NIMBUS os what can’t be said.

    ” This NIMBUS may be there- I wouldn’t say that it isn’t there and yet I can’t find it in much of the self-conscious experimenting that is going on nowadays in the name of poetry.

    ” I can’t get over the impression,” Mr. Robinson went on, with a meditative frown,” that these post-impressionists in painting and most of the VERS LIBRISTES in poetry are trying to find some sort of SHORT CUT to artistic success. I know that many of the new writers insist that it is harder to write good rhymed poetry. And judging from some of their results, I am inclined to agree with them.”

    I asked Mr. Robinson if he believed that the evident increase in interest in poetry, shown by the large sales of the work of ROBERT FROST and EDGAR LEE MASTERS and RUPERT BROOKE, indicated a real renascence of poetry.

    ” I think that it indicates a real renascence of poetry,” he replied.” I am sufficiently childlike and hopeful to find it very encouraging.”

    ” DO YOU THINK,” I asked , ” that the Poetry that is written in  America today is better than that written a generation ago?”

    ” I should hardly venture to say that,” said Mr. Robinson.” For one thing we have no EMERSON. EMERSON is the greatest poet who ever wrote in America. Passages scattered here and there in his work surely are the greatest of American poetry. In fact, I think that there are lines and sentences in Emerson’s poetry that are as great as anything anywhere.”

    I asked Mr. Robinson whether he thought the modern English poets were doing better work than their American contemporaries.At first he was unwilling to express an opinion on this subject, repeating his statement that he mistrusted his own critical judgement. But he said: ” Within his limits, I believe that A.E. Housman is the most authentic poet now writing in England. But, of course, his limits are very sharply drawn, I don’t think that anyone who knows anything about poetry will ever think of questioning the inspiration of  “A Shropshire Lad”.

    ” Would you make a similar comment on any other poetry of our time?” I asked.

    ” Well” said Mr. Robinson reflectively ” I think that no one will question the inspiration os some of Kipling’s poems, of parts of JOHN MASEFIELD’s ” DAUBER” and some of the long lyrics by ALFRED NOYES. But I do not think that either of these poets gives the impression of finality which A.E.HOUSMAN gives. But the way in which I have shifted my opinion about some of RUDYARD KIPLING’s poems and most of SWINEBURNE“S , makes me think that Wordsworth was very largely right in his attitude toward the judgement of youth. But where my opinions have shifted, I think now that I always had misgivings. I fancy that youth always has misgivings in regard to what  is later to be modified or repudiated.”

    Then I asked Mr. Robinson if he thought that the war had anything to with the RENASCENCE OF POETRY .

    ” I can’t see any connection,” he replied.” The only effect on poetry that the war has had, so far as I know, is to produce those five sonnets by RUPERT BROOKE. I can’t see that it has caused any poetical event. And there’s no use prophesying what the war will or will not do to poetry, because no one knows anything about it. The civil war seems to have had a little effect o poetry except to produce JULIA WARD HOWE’S ‘ Battle hymn of the Republic,” Whitman’s  poems on the death of Lincoln and LOWELL’s -ODE.

    “Mr. Robinson,” I said ” e has been much discussion recently about the rewards of poetry, and Miss Amy Lowell has said that no poet ought to be expected to make a living by writing. What do you think about it?”

    ” Should a poet be able to make a living out of poetry?” said Mr. Robinson.” Generally speaking, it is not possible for a poet to make a decent living by his work. In most cases it would be bad for his creative faculties for a poet to make as much money as a successful novelist makes. Fortunately there is no danger of that. Now, assuming that a poet has enough money to live on, the most important thing for him to have is an audience. I mean that the best poetry is in the air. If a poet with no obligations and responsibilities except to stay alive can’t live on a thousand dollars a year, ( I don’t undertake to say just how he is going to get it) he’d better go into some business.

    ” Then you don’t think,” I said, ” that literature has lost through the poverty of poets?”

    ” I certainly do believe that literature has lost through the poverty of poets.” said Mr. Robinson. ” I don’t believe in poverty. I never did. I think it is good for a poet to be bumped and knocked around when he is young, but all the difficulties that are put in his way after he gets to be 25 or 30 are certain to take something out of his work. I don’t see how they can do anything else.”

    ” Sometime ago you asked me,” said Mr. Robinson,” how I accounted for our difficulty in making a correct estimate of the poetry of one’s own time. The question is a difficult one. I don’t even say that it has an answer. But the solution of the thing seems to me to be related to what I said about the quality of finality that seems to exist in all real poetry. Finality seems always to have had a way of not obtruding itself to any great extent.”

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